


In the Wolf's Shadow

by estelraca



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Getting Together, Loyalty, M/M, Mithraic Mysteries Initiation, Wolf Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: Hilarion hated Alexios the first time he saw him, but actually getting to know the man turns hate into respect, and respect into something more.  The need for a new wolfskin makes it possible for that something to come to fruition.
Relationships: Alexios Flavius Aquila/Hilarion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Fic In A Box





	In the Wolf's Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryme_intrinseca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this! I had a really fun time doing some research into the era, though I know it pales in comparison to what was done in the actual books. I played around with some of the fragments of the Mithraic mystery initiations that we are aware of. I hope that you enjoy it!

_In the Wolf's Shadow_

Hilarion doesn't like their new commander when they first meet.

Perhaps that's a little unfair. He doesn't _hate_ the boy to start with, after all. People make mistakes. It's just that when commanders make mistakes, people die. And yet for some people—for the nephews of important people—it doesn't matter that they're standing in a lake of blood. Still they are given more people to command.

So he presses on Alexios Flavius Aquila. He makes it clear that they know who he is and what he's done, and he waits to see what the boy will do in return.

“We must hope that the Frontier Wolves prove themselves worthy of the honor done them.” Alexios looks Hilarion dead in the eye as he speaks, and he really is a beautiful man.

That's something Hilarion might have held against him, in a different world—sometimes beauty means that one cares about the wrong things, or isn't willing to take the risks that need to be made. But right then, as the torchlight plays over Alexios' eyes, Hilarion doesn't think that's the case here.

Then Alexios allows the moment to pass, not trying to press further than that—not trying to press further than he needs to. “Will you pass the wine-jug, Centenarius?”

And Hilarion does, because there's nothing else to be gained, not at that moment.

When Alexios follows Gavros out of the room, Lucius comes over to cuff Hilarion on the shoulder. “What was that about?”

Hilarion takes another drink. “The boy deserves to know that we all know he's being transferred out here to hide his shame. Otherwise he won't know he needs to watch his back.”

Lucius gives his head a shake. “He's been nothing but polite. We don't know for sure what happened. From what I've heard it was more foolishness than cowardice; lack of experience to lack of willingness.”

“He lost a fort and a good number of men.” Hilarion takes another drink. “I don't intend to be his next learning experience.”

Lucius actually laughs, a startling sound from the other centenarius. “You are nothing but a learning experience, Hilarion. Just... be reasonable about him.”

“I am always reasonable.” Hilarion draws himself up to his full height, towering over Lucius.

Lucius nods. “Just so long as the moon isn't full.”

“Or new,” Druim adds.

“Or visible at all.” Lucius nods again, satisfied with himself, as though he's solved a problem.

A low howl is Hilarion's answer, though he keeps his voice quiet. No sense alarming or stirring up either their men or Gavros.

Finishing his drink, Hilarion bids a good night to his companions.

They'll see what their new commander ends up being made of.

If it's not something that belongs among the Wolves, then Hilarion knows there are ways to make him disappear.

***

Alexios is a good commander.

It's not what Hilarion had expected. He had thought that once Gavros left, they would see the truth of Aquila revealed—a spoiled rich man granted protection by his uncle's rank, who wouldn't learn from either his own mistakes or those of others.

Instead he finds an earnest young man who takes to the north country as though he were born to it. Alexios listens to both Hilarion and Lucius. He learns the ways of the different tribes that have made up his command. He takes Gavros' words about the Votadini to heart, and is becoming quite good friends with Cunorix.

It's Cunorix who takes Alexios out to hunt his wolf, and Hilarion is surprised to feel a pang of jealousy as he watches the two of them ride out. The likelihood that Alexios would choose Hilarion to go hunting with had been small to begin with—there were lines between commander and commanded that it wasn't always wise to blur. But Hilarion has begun to like Alexios quite a bit, and it would have been some time to spend together where the rules and ranks of the castellum wouldn't necessarily have needed to apply.

It's probably better that Alexios goes out with Cunorix. It will help keep relationships with the Votadini on the friendly side, which could end up being a matter of survival if multiple clans decide to make a problem of themselves. Plus it puts Alexios and Cunorix on even footing—not something that either the staunch Roman supporters or the staunch Votadini traditionalists will like, but a state of affairs that Hilarion thinks is more likely to last than any attempt to completely supplant one or the other in the near future.

“You're looking glum.” Lucius puts his hands on the wall next to Hilarion's, joining him in looking at the empty land where Alexios and Cunorix once were. “I thought you'd be more excited that our new commander is going for his wolfskin.”

Hilarion runs his fingers over his own familiar fur, remembering the hunt that made him a proper member of the Frontier Wolves. Lucius had been there then, too, his usual quiet, steady self. They make a good pair of centenarius for their band of rascals. “Just thinking that I wish I were going with him.”

“Oh?” Lucius' lips turn up into the quietest little smile. From others it would be a full-fledged grin. “Your cloak isn't looking very tattered yet. Or is it the company that you'd like to be with?”

Hilarion scowls at his friend. “I thought your religious group didn't hold with talking about sex.”

“Christ isn't interested in sex, and neither was Paul, but that doesn't mean _I_ don't get to be.” Lucius' small smile remains. “Do you think you have a chance with the commander? The roles don't quite seem to work out.”

Hilarion shrugs, looking back out over the wild land that they call home. “I think he'd be interested in the right circumstances. But I doubt these are them.”

Lucius' hand claps him on the back. “Don't despair. For all that one day seems to lead into another very similar here, one never knows when things will change drastically.”

“Careful what speak.” Hilarion's fingers moved in the sign against evil wishes he had learned as a child. “We don't want to call anything down.”

“True enough.” Lucius' eyes moved up towards the sun. “May we all be blessed with many long and peaceful days to come.”

“Amen.” Hilarion finished Lucius' prayer along with him, glad to see Lucius' eyes flicker with warmth at the kindness. If the fates are kind, then he and Lucius will get to spend many long years here with their new commander, keeping their skills sharp with little skirmishes without facing any truly desperate situations.

When Alexios comes back with one of the most beautiful wolf pelts Hilarion has ever seen, a grinning Cunorix riding beside him, it seems like the type of dream that might come true.

***

Alexios was a good commander, but even good commanders couldn't stop stupidity coming down from on high.

So many died. So many died needlessly, pointlessly... purposelessly.

It makes Hilarion furious to think about it—to remember the way Lucius' body looked as they settled him into the ground. To remember the way Cunorix—vibrant, young, brilliant Cunorix—looked after Alexios cut him down.

To remember the way Alexios crumpled to the ground, his bandages soaked through with blood, his heart still focused on the Frontier Wolves even as his soul tried to leave his body.

Hilarion forces himself to focus on what needs doing in the days that Alexios hovers between life and death. He's a career soldier, after all. This isn't the first time he's seen horror and chaos and good men dying stupidly. If Alexios wakes and finds that the Wolves haven't been treated properly, that any of them haven't had their wounds seen to or the proper respect and payment given to them for what they've been through, Hilarion knows he'll be quite put out.

So Hilarion does what he knows Alexios would do—or at least as much of it as he can. Because he is not Alexios. He is only a centenarius, not the nephew of the commander of Northern Britain. He is allowed to see the Emperor from afar, but Hilarion will never be welcomed to stand in the Emperor's presence and speak with him.

Which suits Hilarion just fine. Once someone goes too far up the ladder of rank, Hilarion's not sure exactly how one should approach them. Or, rather, he knows how he _wants_ to approach them, but since he'd rather keep his head attached to his body and his own rank unchanged, it's mostly best for him to stay away from those who are too far above his own station.

Alexios isn't too far above him. At least... he's not if Alexios decides to stay. If he takes one of the other offers Hilarion has heard of—if he decides to go with the Emperor—then Hilarion will just have to find another commander to break in like he did Alexios.

Except... Hilarion doesn't think there are any other commanders like Alexios. Certainly not ones who are willing and able to learn, capable in both battle and diplomacy, willing to risk himself so thoroughly in an attempt to save his men...

“Lucius.” Hilarion whispers the words to his sword, which he's already cared for and sharpened but is caring for again, because he needs something to do. “You would laugh at me, but I think I'm rather enamored of our commander.”

There's no response, of course. If ghosts are real—either the ghosts of Hilarion's childhood or the restless ghosts of Rome proper or the strange spirits that Lucius sometimes talked about his faith having—they are never kind enough to speak easy truths in the light of day.

Hilarion sighs, putting his sword away and swinging his wolfskin cloak around so that he can study the wounds the poor thing received in battle. He's been slowly working at repairing it, though a part of him thinks a new wolfskin might be in order soon.

Not now, though. Not when they've so recently buried so many.

There's a clatter from the stairs, and Hilarion jerks his head up to see the boy he paid to report on the proceedings in the Emperor's chambers come skittering out to him. The lad's breathing is quick and rough, proof that he's done as Hilarion asked and run straight here.

“Well?” Hilarion stands, slinging his still-rough cloak back on.

The boy drags in a breath. “Aquila plans on taking the Attacotti.”

Hilarion feels a grin break across his face as a weight lifts from his shoulder. He presses the promised bit of money into the boy's hand as he slips past him and back into the fort proper.

Alexios is staying, and that means Hilarion will be able to say without hesitation that he's staying, too.

***

Their new troops are rougher than any Hilarion has had the pleasure of dealing with, and he enjoys it thoroughly. Perhaps he shouldn't. Perhaps he should be complaining more about all they've lost, remembering all the graves they dug and those they didn't get a chance to on the march that led them here. Perhaps he should bear more of a grudge against these people for what their brethren did.

He can't, though. He's too much of a career soldier for that. He knows that people will do what they need to do to survive, to fit in, to have a place to belong. He knows that allegiances and alliances can change in a heartbeat depending on the decisions of those in power.

He knows that 'those in power' is a relative thing, that compared to many of those in his command he might as well be a god.

And he knows he's getting far too fond of his own commander, that he desperately _meant_ the cheer that he participated in that elevated Alexios Flavius Aquila to emperor.

Would Alexios make a good emperor? Hilarion isn't certain of that. Perhaps he's cynical, but he thinks Alexios has too many principles to make a good emperor. A good emperor wouldn't have fought Cunorix in the snow. A good emperor may have set someone _else_ up to do it, but he wouldn't have been doing it himself. And Alexios... Alexios is the kind of man who hunts his own wolves and protects his men with his own blood.

Even if those men are half-tame Attacotti who need to be both barked at and stroked out of ruffled fur on a regular basis.

It hasn't been too much more than a year since Hilarion first met Alexios, but Alexios looks so much older. He _acts_ so much older. There's no pretense in the way he walks up and down the lines to inspect his men. Despite all that they lost, Alexios is more sure of himself now than Hilarion thinks he's ever seen the man.

It's a surety that has been tested. It's a confidence based on knowledge that Alexios paid for with the thick scar that ropes around his arm.

It's the most alluring thing Hilarion can imagine.

He doesn't act on that allure, not for the first two months. They have too much to do, and Alexios is too clearly grateful for Hilarion's presence as a friend and a trusted subordinate for Hilarion to want to risk upsetting the balance of power between them. When they've settled down, when they've had a chance to assess both the mettle and the trustworthiness of their new troops... then maybe Hilarion will make some suggestions. Then they'll see where things go.

It gives Hilarion something pleasant to daydream about, and he does so often. Will Alexios catch on to his insinuations quickly? Alexios had been close with Cunorix, but that could easily have been a purely fraternal bond—Cunorix had a wife he doted on, after all. Alexios had never made a habit of going to the women's houses in the village next to the fort, but that could mean many other things besides a desire to take a man to his bed. And if he does desire men, well, will he desire someone pale like Hilarion? Will he take a subordinate to his bed, even if they treat each other more like friends these days?

There are so many variables that will have to align perfectly for his daydreams of Alexios to come to fruition, but that just makes the imaginings more intricate and powerful.

The winter drags on as they focus on training their troops. It's a long, bitter season, but like all long, bitter seasons it has an end. Spring comes in eddies, a burst of warmth followed by a retreat into frosted mornings followed by a cool, sprinkled shower that gets deep into everyone's bones.

(Lucius would have been preparing for one of his holy days. Hilarion never participated with him, but he still dyes an egg blue and leaves it out for his old friend's ghost. A gesture of respect, nothing more.)

Everything is finally settling into a new routine, a new normal, when the attack comes.

***

Because Alexios is smart—because Alexios has spent the better part of the last six weeks getting a feel for the tribes in the area when he's not getting a feel for his new command—it doesn't turn into a bloodbath. They're able to hold off the first foray without any casualties on their end, though a few people are dragged off to receive medical care.

They're not so lucky during the second, more serious assault.

The walls still hold.

Hilarion reminds himself of that as he rests his back against the stone, trying to keep his vision from blurring too much. If he can see what's happening, he can give orders still. He can try to help.

Every breath hurts. The arrow had been on fire before it buried itself in his flesh. That meant he was bleeding less than he would have been otherwise, but it also meant a different type of pain, one he was less familiar with.

Pain is something to work through, nothing more. Hilarion tries to place his hands, to shove himself back to his feet, and finds that only his left one works well. His right is alternately numb and shooting agony, and he just tucks the offending limb against his body and tries to work with the other three. He can do this. Alexios is counting on him. He's one of the more experienced sub-commanders. In the awful circumstance that something happens to Alexios, Hilarion might end up having to make decisions that will be life and death for not just _his_ men but potentially Alexios himself. So he can't be sitting on the ground trying to squint events into focus. He has to—

Hands slide under his good arm, help him gain and stay on his feet. Alexios' familiar dark eyes are suddenly very close to his own. “Hilarion, what happened?”

Hilarion looks down at the arrow sticking out of his chest. Or perhaps shoulder? It had slipped between two pieces of his armor—pieces that should have been tight against each other but that had gaped open after repelling an attempted mount of the wall resulted in some slashed buckles. The archer who fired that arrow had gotten an unfortunate lucky shot.

Alexios' eyes follow Hilarion's, and he purses his lips. “Yes, I see. Are you hurt elsewhere?”

“I don't think so.” Hilarion's voice is a croak, his mouth tasting of blood. If a lung were truly pierced, he doesn't think he'd still be standing, but his body still rejects the foreign object in his chest with vehement aggression.

“You!” Alexios snags two of their younger recruits. “Take him to medical, now.”

“I can't—” Hilarion tries to protest, to stand straighter, and finds himself gasping as the arrow shifts inside him.

“You can.” Alexios claps him on his uninjured shoulder, which is the only reason Hilarion doesn't fall to the stone in a dead faint. “Go rest. I'll be with you as soon as this is done.”

And with that Alexios is gone again, leaving Hilarion to lean on the people he had been training just that morning.

Since it was clearly an order, he allows himself to be led to medical, hoping this won't be the last time he gets to see Alexios.

***

Hilarion finds himself lost in fever for the next three days.

It's an experience he's never had before, though he's watched plenty of others battle through it. Sometimes it seems like that is his purpose in life—to survive battles with barely a scratch and stand at others' bedsides, trying to help them see truth through all the lies a beleaguered body conjures. Trying to coax broth down parched throats, and keep nightmares at bay...

But now it's Alexios who stands at Hilarion's bedside. It's Alexios' dark eyes that Hilarion sees as he swims in and out of lucidity.

It's Alexios who holds water to his lips and smiles when Hilarion finally wakes, sweaty and tired and aching, to a world that has been moving on without his noticing.

“How long?” Hilarion almost doesn't understand his own voice.

“Three days.” Alexios helps support Hilarion's head, and Hilarion tries not to think of how much he enjoyed offering the same help to Alexios not too many months ago. “The scattering of Christians among your men think it's a sign.”

“A sign of what?” Hilarion coughs out a laugh.

“There's more debate about that.” Alexios' mouth quirks into a familiar smile, and Hilarion watches it with deep affection. “Some say that you're blessed. Others that you're meant for great things. Still others that you're being given a chance to repent because you are a good man.”

“And you?” Hilarion raises his eyebrows at his commander.

“I am not Christian.” Alexios' smile doesn't fade.

“No, you are not. Does Mithras have any words for soldiers who have been spared the grave?” Hilarion tries moving his right arm, relieved to find that it obeys him, less than thrilled at the spike of pain that shoots up and down the appendage.

“Mithras has many words for those interested in hearing them.” Alexios' fingers close of Hilarion's, his voice a quiet murmur for just a moment. “But for now I will just be glad that Mars decided you were more use on the field than in the underworld.”

“Always.” Hilarion's fingers feel too warm, tingling where Alexios touched him. “What news since I was last coherent?”

Alexios gives a brief, easy to follow synopsis of what has happened in the last few days. The siege broke on the second morning, their attackers displeased to find that what they thought would be easy pickings of newly-trained, newly-converted Roman irregulars. Of the fort's defenders, only fourteen had died, with twice that many requiring medical care for injuries large and small.

Alexios' hand touched the bandage on Hilarion's chest. “Not too many as impressive as yours, though.”

“I aim to be nothing less.” Hilarion considers putting his hand over Alexios', but doesn't quite dare. He's happy enough that Alexios is here, talking to him, repaying the camaraderie that Hilarion showed him earlier.

“You succeed.” Alexios' fingers drift away, his eyes taking on a distant cast, as though he's seeing something Hilarion can't. “You said some things, while you were feverish.”

Did he, now? He can't remember, but he supposes that's to be expected. “Nothing terrible, I hope.”

“You said you would like to go hunting with me.” Alexios' eyes refocus, and his smile is kind as he looks down at Hilarion. “Does that still hold true now that you're in your right senses?”

“I certainly wouldn't say no once it's safe.” Hilarion lets his words out slowly, carefully. “Assuming you were willing.”

“I would be willing. And there might be need—as soon, as you say, as we can do so without risking something foolish.” Alexios moves to the foot of the bed, pulling something from the locker there. “I fear this has seen better days.”

It takes Hilarion a moment to realize that Alexios is holding Hilarion's wolfskin. A groan of dismay rises up in Hilarion's throat. The head of the wolfskin must have taken several blows that Hilarion didn't notice, because one ear is gone, and the muzzle dangles awkwardly in several tattered ribbons. Another sword slice tears through the middle of the wolfskin.

“You know...” Alexios sticks his hand through the middle of the body. “You've really been training long enough to know that blocking swords with your body isn't recommended.”

Hilarion uses his left hand to push his hair back, rubbing as the stubble on his cheeks. He'll need to shave as soon as he can figure out how to sit up. “In my defense, I don't think I was quite in my right mind when I was receiving those blows. I believe most came after the arrow to the chest.”

“I have it on very good authority that you're never in what most people would call a right mind.” Alexios perches on the edge of the bed, the wolfskin still held in his hands. “I'm sure a lot of these could be patched, to varying degrees of success. But if you'd like to go hunting together...”

“Yes.” Hilarion will still try to patch the wolfskin he has—there are too many memories that go with it for him to be eager to leave it behind. But he has had the skin for many years now; even if he patches it once more, Alexios is right that it's starting to get a bit rough and ragged.

A new skin for a new life. Most people would say it's appropriate. It will give both him and Alexios a chance to take a break from the fort, to unwind and enjoy themselves while undertaking a task that none in the Wolves will fault them for.

And if something else comes out of the hunting trip, well... Hilarion can always dream.

***

They wait over a month to take their hunting trip.

It's necessary. Alexios has work to do diplomatically; Hilarion has work to do inside the fort, making sure that their soldiers learn the right lessons from their first taste of battle as a unit of irregulars.

It also allows the season to move along, warmth coming and lingering, the land around them becoming a rich green warren that will be utter joy to explore.

When they take their ponies and set out, Hilarion finds it impossible not to grin like a cat that has gotten into the milking barn.

(Some of their men are keeping cats. Just a handful, and none quite so hand-tamed as the little one that bled out his last on his human's shoulder too few months ago, but their presence still brings a pang of nostalgia to Hilarion's chest each time he sees them.)

“A good day for hunting.” Alexios is smiling, too, though he somehow manages to look reserved and respectable even now. Ever the commander, now, even when going to enjoy himself.

Or... perhaps not. If Hilarion can't look at a cat right now without remembering what they lost, perhaps asking Alexios out on this journey wasn't the wisest decision he could have made.

“It rained the day I first set out to find my wolf.” Hilarion puffs out a breath, intentionally blowing out his cheeks for maximum entertainment value. “I was soaked to the skin within an hour, wondering what kind of fool I was.”

Alexios' smile widens just a bit, his eyes fond as he studies Hilarion. “It was pleasant weather for me. But you know that.”

“I do.” Just as he knows what came after the hunt. A gentle pressure of his knees sends his pony prancing closer to Hilarion's, and he reaches out to touch his commander's arm.

A nod is Alexios' response. “That is long past, though. Today we are forging new memories.”

Time could be such a tricky thing. _Long past_ meant such different things depending on if it was peace or battle that stood between the two times being discussed. “New memories, then. I heard whispers that northwest will get us to good wolf hunting grounds, a bit of forest with a rocky ring where we can hopefully run something to ground.”

“Lead on, then.” Alexios reins in just a bit, allowing Hilarion to easily slip ahead of him and set both the pace and the direction of their travel.

They don't talk much as they begin their hunt, but it's a companionable silence. When one or the other does say something, it's usually to comment on what one of their men—living or dead—would think of a particular stretch of land or type of bird or bit of track that they've found. There's much more laughter than solemnity in the exchanges, and Hilarion finds his chest aching with something besides grief and old wounds.

Lucius would actually deign to tease him for this, Hilarion thinks. To be so very affected by his commander's presence, to feel in his heart and bones respond to Alexios' proximity, to want to turn to him as a sunflower would the sun—yes, it's utterly ridiculous, but it feels so very nice.

They find the wolf tracks in the early afternoon. It's a small pack, only two wolves—either younglings out venturing, sisters looking for a male, or brothers searching for a place to set up their own territory. The tracks are easy enough to follow, and they flush the beasts after about an hour of tracking.

The wolves are young, as they suspected, and they give the dogs a good run. They're not as clever as older wolves would be, and it feels almost anticlimactic when they have the two beasts cornered, backed up against a bit of hillside with the dogs ranged around them.

Hilarion slides off his pony, taking the spear that he had prepared for this moment.

The two wolves stand back to back, lunging and biting at the dogs. They're too tired to actually pose much risk to the hounds, but they're still plenty dangerous, and the fact that there's _two_ poses an interesting dilemma.

Alexios has also slid down off his horse. He frowns at the wolves. “I... could try for the second wolf, if you want.”

Hilarion shakes his head. “No wolves except to replace a wolfskin, and I repaired yours recently enough to know it's not in danger of falling apart.”

Alexios nods, and Hilarion can see his shoulders relaxing a bit in relief. There's nothing mystical about the connection the Wolves have with their namesakes, but perhaps that's the thing about mysticism—it's not a separate thing at all, just what people bring to it themselves. “We could call the dogs off, see if we can get the wolves to split apart. Or find another pack to chase down.”

“We could.” Hilarion tests the heft and weight of the spear again. He'd practiced before they left the fort, wanting to make sure he'd still be able to handle the weapon even after his injury. He tends to aim a bit lower and to the right now than he did before the injury, but he can compensate well enough for that. “But I feel like trying it.”

“You feel like risking yourself.” Alexios' tone manages to be both fond and exasperated.

“I feel like finishing this, so we can have a nice night out together and then head back in the morning.” Hilarion smiles at his commander, though he feels the smile falter when Alexios just stares back at him with deep brown eyes. “Though if you'd prefer we play it safer—”

A shake of his head dispels the severity from Alexios' features. “No, no. Let's see what we can do.” He swings back into the saddle. “I'll see if I can separate out the wolf you don't choose, and get it away from the pack.”

Hilarion nods, studying the two wolves. Both are breathing heavily, their sides heaving. They're both gray with black markings, though one has a darker mask over the eyes than the other. He decides that's the one he's going to take and plans his approach accordingly.

Perhaps he should feel guilty about doing this. These two wolves care about one another enough to stay together even when the pack is on their heels, herding them to their deaths. He _could_ let them go, as Alexios said. He could wait to try to find another pack, another group of wolves.

That's the thing about pack animals, though. They will always be leaving more wolves behind. Perhaps it's kinder for them to watch this animal grieve, for them to see it _realize_ that its brother will not be rising again.

It's always better to at least have a grave, even if it's one that will never be visited again.

He's careful about picking his line of attack. He has Alexios; he has the dogs; he has his sword in its sheath and the spear. He's well-armed, and this _should_ be safe, but he's making it less safe because that _feels_ right and he doesn't want to hear Alexios say this was foolish when everything's said and done.

The wolves already had their fighting chance during the chase. Now it's just time to end this.

Hilarion intends to get the one with the black mask. He steps forward, spear before him, thrusting for the wolf's chest.

The one with the lighter face turns and charges, impaling itself on the spear in a way Hilarion hadn't expected. The dogs begin baying again, and Hilarion works hard not to lose his footing.

The black-masked wolf studies Hilarion, ears pressed up against its head. Hilarion finds himself pinned by yellow-gold eyes, and he imagines what's happening in the animal's mind. Does it understand that its brother is dying? Does it know that Hilarion intends to honor the beast? No, of course it doesn't.

It knows that the thrashes and the squeals and the growing scent of blood mean death. It spends perhaps twenty seconds locked in a staring match with Hilarion, and then it bolts towards the dogs. Hilarion tries to get his lips to form the proper whistle, but the spear stabs him in the chest, and all his concentration has to return to the wolf he's bringing down.

Alexios opens the dogs, calling them back, giving the remaining wolf a corridor to escape down. In a flash of gray and black it's gone, somehow finding the energy to charge off into the forest despite the earlier chase.

_Grief will do that_ , Hilarion finds himself thinking foolishly. _Grief will give your arms strength and your feet wings you didn't know were possible. All it asks is your prostration in the end._

The wolf is still fighting, and Hilarion knows he needs to end this. He presses forward, trying to pin the creature so he can finish the job properly. Pulling his sword from its sheath with his right hand, he uses his weight and height to steady the spear while he darts in to finish the job.

The wolf convulses just once against the sparkling metal, and then its finally still. The dogs try to press in around Hilarion, eager for their part of the spoils. Hilarion shoves one yellow-furred mutt back. “Not yet,” he chastises. “In a few minutes, but not yet.”

Alexios doesn't offer to help as Hilarion goes about skinning the carcass. Hilarion is glad of that. The first few minutes with the wolf's still-warm skin belong only to the one who will wear it going forward.

But of course Alexios knows that. He's too much one of them to forget it.

When the skin is off Hilairon releases the hounds to take their portion of the hunt. The dogs leap forward eagerly, all wagging tails and excited yips.

Alexios has started a fire, and he watches Hilarion approach with those beautiful dark eyes, his expression smooth and impossible to read. “Well done.”

“Not as pretty a kill as some.” Hilarion puts his hand through the hole the spear made. “But it will do. Thank you for accompanying me.”

“It's been my pleasure. Besides, it gives us some privacy.” Alexios looks up at him, and this time Hilarion thinks there's the faintest coy smile on his lips. “You know, you didn't only talk about hunting while you were feverish.”

“Oh?” Hilarion laughs, trying and failing to keep his face from flushing. “Nothing too scandalous, I hope.”

“Not to me.” Alexios is definitely smiling now. “But I don't mind being told I'm beautiful, so I might be biased.”

Hilarion's world goes white for a moment. “Did I really say that? Fever must be better than the drugs they give the oracles for visions.”

Alexios' right eyebrow arches up. “Should I take that to mean that I'm _not_ the most beautiful man you've seen in a decade?”

“Oh, you are. You are one of the prettiest people I have known as well as one of the most gorgeous commanders.” Hilarion shows his bloody palms. “But I never intended to _tell_ you that to your face, especially not when I was covered in blood and couldn't properly _do_ anything about it.”

Alexios' other eyebrow marches upward, but his mouth is still smiling as he asks, “And what _did_ you intend to do about it?”

Hilarion raises his right index finger. “Give me just a moment. I need to wash this wolf blood off my hands and then I can show you.”

It takes him a little longer than a minute. There's a fair amount of blood after skinning the wolf, and his canteen is lower than he would like. They'll have to make a foray for water in the near future.

But first... well, first he sees exactly what Alexios intends to let him do.

Alexios hasn't moved much when Hilarion comes back to the fire. He's still sitting there, proud and pretty, his own wolfskin cloak covering his back.

Hilarion sits down next to his commander, feeling young and foolish and as if he's overstepping every boundary that was ever created between them. He opens his mouth to speak, but this doesn't really seem like the time for words. Instead he reaches out tentatively, laying a hand against Alexios' cheek.

Alexios raises his own hand to cover Hilarion's, two calloused grips—two hands that have killed, two hands that have held cloth to life-taking injuries, two hands that have taught. “What is it that you want?”

Hilarion shudders, the question more than he can process. “I want to be with you.”

“I am your commander. If I were to take you as a lover, I doubt there would be much change in how people view us at the fort, provided we keep our respective roles clear.” Alexios squeezed Hilarion's hand. “On the other hand, no one is here to see what we do, and I have no desire to be seen as a commander whose good will can be bought with a good-looking body.”

The catch in Hilarion's breath is foolish, but he can't deny it's there. “Glad I'm not the only one to think the other is physically attractive, though I was apparently the only one foolish enough to let a little fever and life-threatening injury take control of his senses.”

Alexios smiles, allowing his hand to drop. “I'm not prone to speaking much period, whereas you, my friend... you are someone whose words tend to escape him whether it's the wise thing to do or not. Whether your friends are there cautioning you to be careful or not. I have no doubt you would have told me your feelings one way or another in the near future.”

“Perhaps.” Hilarion leans forward, his lips a breath away from Alexios'. “But then we wouldn't be here right now, would we?”

Alexios doesn't answer in words. Instead he closes the distance between them, his lips pressing against Hilarion's. His arms wrap around Hilarion's neck, and one of his hands buries itself in Hilarion's hair.

Hilarion responds immediately. His tongue flicks over Alexios' wind-chapped lips; reaching out, he puts one hand on each of Alexios' hips, trying to move Alexios into his lap. Perhaps he could have done it before his injury. Now, though, his right arm spasms, protesting too much work in too short a time period.

It's only Alexios' sharp reflexes that keep them both from tumbling into the fire.

Alexios looks up at him, the wolfskin head staring over Alexios' shoulder in seeming reproval.

Hilarion sighs. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry.” Alexios laughs softly. “Though the burns would have been interesting to explain. Come on, let's get a bit better prepared.”

Alexios came _very_ prepared. When he sets out the bedroll and produces a bottle of oil from inside his pack, any remaining doubts Hilarion had that this was where Alexios intended to take matters disappears.

“So.” Alexios studies him, gesturing towards the prepared bed.

Hilarion moves towards him slowly, feeling as though he's breaking down barriers once more. “You truly have no preference what role you take?”

“I want to have a night where we can be pleased, the both of us.” Alexios' voice is low, deeper and rougher than Hilarion is used to hearing it. “I want a night where I am Alexios Flavius Aquila, and that is _all_ that I am. A night with someone who knows what I am capable of, but does not want me to be capable of anything with a metal sword.”

“I wouldn't mind you being capable with other swords.” Hilarion reaches out to cup Alexios' cheek again, and leans in to kiss him more gently. “And I will always see you as Alexios, young foolish Alexios, have no fear of that.”

Alexios laughs, a clear sound that echoes in their clearing. Then his arms are around Hilarion again, and the rest of the world fades away.

It has been a while since either of them was able to partake in simple joy like this. Oh, Hilarion _could_ have made his way to the houses of prostitution. It would have been easy enough. And he supposes Alexios could have, too, though it was always more of a _show_ when the commander decided to do something so base. Especially a commander like Alexios, who was considered... not a god, not even truly the Emperor, but _capable_ of being the Emperor by his men. Capable of a greatness beyond the reach of most.

But there is something more that Hilarion wants, something he can't get with the bodies he buys. There is an understanding of what his body is, what each scar means, what each callous indicates. There are words and phrases and snatches of song that he is able to whisper into Alexios' ear, knowing Alexios understands immediately what he is trying to indicate.

There is more than just the physical acts with Alexios, and though that isn't socially acceptable, it is _that_ which Hilarion wants and that which Alexios grants without hesitation.

When they've both sated themselves, neither caring what the rules of social status say about who is penetrating whom and what acts are allowed, they lie together underneath Alexios' year-old wolfskin and Hilarion's patched wolfskin, staring up at a glittering constellation of stars.

“It reminds you how small we are. How each of us is just a little spark in a great empire, and yet...” Alexios raises his hand and covers part of the sky. “Blot out some of those stars, and entire armies could be lost, unable to find their way.”

Hilarion tightens his hold on Alexios' shoulders, pulling him close. “It wouldn't have reminded me of that, no. Guess that's why you're the commander and I'm just the centenarius.”

Alexios turns his head just enough to smile at Hilarion. “I know you better than that. There's more that happens in that head of yours than you let on.”

“Even with my penchant for talking too much?” Hilarion presses his lips gently against Alexios' forehead.

“I don't know if you talk too much or if you just say more than most sane people would. And yet, here you are, a centenarius, and a well-respected one at that. Mayhap the thing to be learned is that more people should speak at least some of what's on their mind more often.” Alexios' lips catch Hilarion's, a firm, certain kiss—a sated kiss rather than a hungry one.

Hilarion sighs when Alexios pulls away. “Depends on the person. Some people speak far too much about topics they don't actually understand.”

“The dead are already facing their own judgments.” Alexios kisses Hilarion's throat, first one side and then the other. “No need to spend time worrying about them.”

“That depends on what you believe about the afterlife.” Hilarion runs his hands across the muscles of Alexios' back, wondering if this is foreplay or merely satiated exploration. If it's foreplay, he will try to keep up with Alexios, though he's not certain he can.

“And what do you believe?” Alexios shifts, his face suddenly right about Hilarion's.

Hilarion blinks. He hadn't expected _that_. “Uh... what most believe, I suppose. You pay Charon your fee, you go to be judged, you accept your judgment...”

Alexios nods. “It's what I believe, too. But I know Christians have their own beliefs, and some of the tribes have theirs... my own nursemaid told me stories of the Underworld that were probably improper for a child of my age...”

“If they help you grow into a man of your calibre, then I suppose they were exactly the right types of stories.” Hilarion leans up to kiss Alexios just beneath the chin before allowing himself to melt into the ground again. “What about your Mithras thing? Do they teach about the afterlife, too?”

“I'm not supposed to talk about it with the uninitiated.” Alexios murmurs the words into Hilarion's throat, his lips kissing a fiery trail up to Hilarion's jaw. “Though I could always fix that.”

“Hm?” Hilarion blinks, trying to follow the conversation rather than just the way Alexios' skin feels against his.

“If you wanted to be initiated... I mean, there's no mithraeum, obviously. And I'm not a pater or anything. But I do know the initiation rite, and if you wanted to...” Alexios pulls back, his form outlined in silver stars. “If you were interested. I won't pressure you into anything.”

“I...” Hilarion thinks Alexios could be a god, staring down at him, limned in starlight. “I don't know that I'll be very good at any religion, but I like being with you. I'd like to know what you believe, see what you find comforting.”

Alexios considers, turning his head up towards the stars. He still looks impossible, but Hilarion reaches out, runs his fingers over the scar that curls up Alexios' arm. If Alexios is a god, it's the type of god that can bleed and die—which, to be fair, is most of the ones Hilarion is familiar with. It's only the Christians who claim to have a god too strong to be injured except for by choice. Well, the Christians and the Jews and a handful of other splinter religions along the same line, but given the Emperor's choices Hilarion is most familiar with the Christians.

“I think...” Alexios turns his head so that his eyes are staring straight down into Hilarion's, his nose just a hair's breath from Hilarion's. The firelight does very nice things to Alexios' eyes and cheekbones. “I'd like to initiate you, if you'd have it.”

“I'll follow you anywhere.” The words are true, but they tumble out without Hilarion's permission, a dare to the darkness around them.

Alexios' hand cups Hilarion's cheek. “Give me just a few minutes to prepare.”

Hilarion gives a grunt of ascent, content to just lay there staring up at the stars for a few minutes, wondering exactly when he fell so ridiculously in love with his commander. Probably when Alexios collapsed from blood loss. The pieces had been there before, but that moment—Alexios pale but victorious, determined, seeing to his men before himself—Hilarion knew that someone needed to be there to do the same for Alexios.

And now here he is, about to be initiated into one of the more secretive of the soldier's religions.

He doesn't regret a single step of the journey, though his chest does decide to take that moment to ache where the arrow had injured him.

He doesn't know exactly how much time has passed before Alexios returns. He pushes the blankets and wolfskins off Hilarion. “Sit up, initiate.”

Hilarion complies, smiling hesitantly, not sure exactly what tone Alexios is going for.

Alexios smiles back. “Do you wish to give yourself into the service of Mithras, to stand with your fellow soldiers as brothers in arms, protecting what is right and just in the world? Holding back the forces of chaos and evil?”

It's been a long day. Hilarion supposes that's the reason the little hairs on his arm are standing up on end as he shifts into a cross-legged position. “I do. I wish to stand by my brother Alexios, wherever he may travel.”

Alexios' head dips, and Hilarion could swear he sees a smile again. “Then I will walk you through the first steps of initiation. There are many more to follow, should you wish to truly learn all the mysteries and purpose of Mithras. But to start you will descend into the darkness of death, re-emerging as a Raven of Mithras.”

“So long as it doesn't involve actually dying.” Hilarion doesn't expect it would—he's known too many soldiers who followed Mithras' path—but it was one of those things that you should be absolutely sure of before following through.

“Only if we do something _very_ wrong.” Alexios leans forward, and there's something white in his hands. It seems to glow in the dark, though Alexios' hands are leaving small dark smudges on the cloth. “Come on.”

Hilarion leans forward, lowering his head. His breath catches in his throat as Alexios' fingers trail through his hair before tying the white cloth across his eyes, blocking out both the starlight and the flickering fire.

There's trust inherent in allowing someone to blindfold you. It's a trust Hilarion wouldn't afford to many people, but Alexios... Alexios he doesn't mind having this power over him.

Alexios' fingers touch his arms, gently maneuvering Hilarion's hands behind his back. Something cold and slimy is wrapped around his wrists, a parody of a knot. It would be easy enough for Hilarion to slip the bonds, but he doesn't, instead just shuddering at the feel.

“Typically they use avian entrails, and read the fortune after.” Alexios' words are warm puffs of air against Hilarion's ear. “But I think for us—for the Frontier Wolves—this works better.”

Had the dogs really left enough of the entrails? Or had Alexios thought of this earlier and prepared?

Alexios' voice shifts, though Hilarion didn't hear him move. From the sound Alexios must be standing above Hilarion, not more than a foot or two in front of him. “Initiate, do you wish to learn more of Mithras' story?”

“Yes.” Hilarion thinks he's heard a fair number of the stories, but he's sure those in the religion know more. And though there's a certain joy to hearing a drunken man speak, he's sure it will be better from a sober one.

“Mithras was born from all that is good in the universe. He was sent to craft a civilization built on justice and goodness, and those who enter into his service pledge to use their own swords in the same way. We will never attack in fury, never draw blade with the intent to spread chaos or take unjustly.” Alexios' voice trails off, and Hilarion wishes he weren't bound, wishes he could reach out to touch Alexios and drive away the memories he is undoubtedly seeing. When Alexios continues, though, his voice is calm and certain. “Mithras slew the great bull, and with that corpse the world was made better. We are to be the same. We will kill when it is righteous; we will seed the world with wonder. Do you accept this, Raven?”

“I will wield my sword in your service, to shape the world as you—and through you Mithras—wishes.” It's the truest oath Hilarion can swear.

Something slick is brushed against Hilarion's forehead, first a vertical line, then a horizontal one. “You come from blood and ash. You come from the funeral pyre of your previous life.”

There is a pause, long enough for Hilarion to know he is expected to answer. “I offer myself to you and this new life, a willing sacrifice.”

A kiss is pressed to the top of his head. “I accept.”

Cold water trickles down where the kiss had been, a slow, steady stream that sends shivers down Hilarion's spine. The water passes over the ash and blood cross on his forehead, but doesn't actually wash it away.

When Alexios speaks again, he has once more shifted positions. Now he must be standing behind Hilarion, kneeling or otherwise crouched so he's on the same level. “With my sword, I free you. With your sword...”

“I will defend you. Unless you want a _different_ type of sword, but that is also yours for the commanding.”

The cold of Alexios' sword slides between Hilarion's wrists, severing the slick bindings. Hilarion immediately pulls his hands back in front of himself, rubbing at his wrists and rolling his shoulders.

Arms wrap around him from behind, and a kiss is pressed against the back of his neck. “I accept all of your swords with equal joy.”

Something is pressed against his lips—a cup, Hilairon realizes, and the sharp scent of wine assaults his nose. “Drink of the blood of Mithras, that His fire might race through your veins.”

Hilarion doesn't usually have to be encouraged to drink, and this is no exception.

“Eat of the bread of Mithras, that the strength of the earth—the earth nourished by the bull's blood—may support you in times of trouble.”

The bread tastes an awful lot like a day-old roll from the fort, but Hilarion isn't going to complain.

“You are now a Raven in service to Mithras. You are brother to every other man who has been initiated. You are welcome at each Mithraeum, and you may work your up the ladder of initiation as you are called to do so.” Alexios reaches up, removing the blindfold. He has apparently moved behind Hilarion again.

After the pure darkness the firelight causes Hilarion to squint and look away. The stars are less dazzling, but also bursts of pure bliss as his gaze scans over them, his eyes watering still from the glare of the fire.

“We are what stands between the world and the fires of damnation.” Alexios' arms have once more moved to wrap around Hilarion. “We protect our men; we protect our empire; we protect the civilians. We are the shepherds of civilization.”

Hilarion isn't certain that Britain needs their civilization, but he keeps that thought locked in his head. He is too glad to be here, too glad to have Alexios and the Wolves and everything else. He won't risk any of that by wondering what they're even doing here. They're following orders; they're being as reasonable and understanding as they can within those bonds. It's always been enough for Hilarion, and he intends to keep that, at least.

Alexios' teeth nip against Hilarion's neck. “I could tell you more stories, or we could otherwise occupy ourselves...”

Hilarion laughs, turning in Alexios' arms. “I think I need to wash up a bit. After that, I'm happy to do what you will. Though I must ask... did you intend this to happen?” He looks down at the white blindfold.

Head ducking down, Alexios shrugs. “I didn't necessarily _intend_ it, but... I hoped, perhaps, it would happen. I like having others to share my beliefs with, even if their initiation is less than standard.”

“Would others disapprove of it?” Hilarion gathers his canteen and a cloth, trying to clean up his wrists and his forehead.

Alexios takes the cloth and carefully wipes away the cross on Hilarion's forehead. “No. We're a soldier's religion, for the most part. Soldiers have to make due with less than ideal circumstances often. A lot would probably offer to throw you a proper party, and if you want to work your up the mysteries you'll have to do those steps properly, but this... I doubt this is even the most cobbled-together initiation people have heard of.”

“Because you were prepared.” Hilarion offers his wrists for Alexios to wash, too.

“Because I think I've gotten to know you fairly well.” Alexios' gaze flashes from Hilarion's eyes to his wrists and back to his eyes as he works. “I think I can predict what you'll do and what you won't do.”

Hilarion makes a considering growl in his throat. Then he twists his wrists, grabbing for Alexios', holding his commander firmly. “Did you predict that?”

Alexios leans forward, kissing the very tip of Hilarion's nose. “I _was_ the one who packed oil, wasn't I?”

The flush that rises to Hilarion's cheeks likely doesn't show in the darkness. “You had information I didn't.”

“That's the best way to be prepared.” Alexios leans forward, slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, to press his lips against Hilarion's.

Hilarion pulls Alexios tight against him, and together they tumble back onto their collection of bedding.

It's quite late when they're both sated again, the moon already riding low on the horizon. Hilarion sighs, content. He has Alexios in his arms. They have a command that they're both proud of, in a land where they both _fit_.

“When we go back...” Alexios' words are a soft breath against Hilarion's ear. “What do you want to do?”

“This, again.” Hilarion buries his nose in Alexios' hair. “Except with less hunting of wolves. Hopefully we'll both be set in that regards for some time.”

Alexios laughs, a low rumble under Hilarion's hand. “I think we can manage to do this again. But if you don't mind... if it wouldn't hurt you... I would like to ask that this be another mystery, a rite that the others don't get to know about.”

Hilarion considers. “Because of who I am, or because of who you are?”

“Because of who I am.” Alexios answers immediately. “As I said before, I don't want anyone getting... ideas about how they can get ahead. Or about how they can hurt me.”

“You're too good a commander for that, but I understand how people can be. I don't mind this being something just for us, when we get the time.” Which might not be often, but that's the life of a soldier. Sometimes all one can do is clutch tight to the happy moments when they come, and use the memories of those times to guide the way to more.

“When we get the time.” Alexios' voice is already sleep-slurred, and Hilarion strokes his commander's hair as the two of them fall into an easy slumber, the fire banked low next to them.

***

By the time Hilarion's new wolfskin has been cured and made into a proper cloak, the Attacotti are grumbling about wanting their own.

They have been blooded together now. They have been training together for months. Hilarion isn't sure their little irregular unit will ever be considered _completely_ trustworthy, but they're good men, and he finds himself liking them just like he had his old men.

With Alexios' permission, he starts sending parties of two to four out to hunt for their own cloaks. He makes it a reward, something to be earned—there are too many of them to send them all out hunting at once, not if he wants there to be wolves present in the years to come. He sends them out in groups of two and four, letting those selected choose their own companions.

He wonders, sometimes, if those heading out on their hunts with such bright grins have plans like Alexios did.

Alexios stays his usual self, calm, assertive, willing to listen but also expecting obedience. He doesn't change how he interacts with Hilarion at all, which is exactly what Hilarion expected.

Except maybe... sometimes... when no one else is at table, and their fingers brush together. Perhaps then Alexios smiles, just a little, and inclines his head to Hilarion.

It is hard for the commander to take a significant of amount of time away from his troops without reason. It is impossible for him to do so and continually favor one man without it being obvious what he's doing. So Hilarion isn't surprised to watch the months start sliding away, spring into summer into fall into winter. There are moments that they have, and four trysts that are as discreet as one could possibly be, but no more than that.

He finds he doesn't _need_ more than that. He followed Alexios with no promise of anything at all, and he stays with Alexios for the same reason he followed—Alexios is worth it.

Midwinter comes, and their men all celebrate in their own ways. The Christians arrange some kind of prayer meeting out in the stable. The tribes each have their own, slightly different versions of celebratory meals and games.

And Alexios... Alexios comes up to him, and presses his thumb to Hilarion's forehead, right where he had marked him in that strange initiation all those months ago. “How would you like to learn a bit more about Mithras, little raven?”

Hilarion finds his mouth going dry.

Alexios smiles at him. “It will involve following me into the darkness again.”

“I would follow you into the pits of Tartarus or the heart of the sun.” The words are true, and Alexios is worthy of them, and Hilarion doubts anyone will be able to tell his heart is beating too fast in his chest just from that.

“I know.” Alexios grins. “But how about you just follow me into the cellars, and we'll see where this goes.”

“I think I could do that, too.” Hilarion returns the grin, not sure exactly what the future brings—either in the next hour or the next year—but glad to be walking into it just behind Alexios, exactly where they both belong.


End file.
